This post is dedicated to Miss Smith.
Most people assume that once English teachers leave the confines of their classrooms, they continue obsessively proofreading wherever they go. You know, they take out their Sharpies mid-squat in the bathroom stalls and place an 're to the "your a b--ch." Or they ask for the manager at Red Robin because they were a little too heavy with the apostrophes on their nacho's. Or they giggle with glee when they find a red pen in their purses to more effectively correct the errors in the church bulletins (far more entertaining than sudoku could ever be).
I was going to write about being a nerd. I was inspired by my evening of tootling around on the computer with Lord of the Rings playing on the TV in the background. I then reached for a cookie and couldn't help but notice that my sinful little mini sandwiches are called Double Stuf Oreos. And I think it was at that point the English teacher in me began to rage. I inhaled dramatically and sort of got some cookie crumbs lodged in my lungs or something. I started mumbling about how it's no wonder my students can't spell worth sheet. I automatically had a list run through my head of all the companies trying to be all hip and stuf with their marketing. Like, for instance, I hate it when restaurants write "late nite" on their signs. Oooh, what about "drive thru?" Ca man! Put a little more f into the "effing" part of market-effing-strategy.
You can check out the messed up grocers' signs to test your editing skills. It's fun.
Wednesday, March 12, 2008
Wednesday, February 13, 2008
So Much for Good Lent-tentions
On Ash Wednesday, I did a morning devo with my students about Lent. I pretty much copied what was said from the pulpit on Sunday, but whatever. I sounded smart, and that's what matters. Anyway, I told my class confidently that I was giving up chocolate for Lent and was going to replace chocolate with praying more specifically for my family. My students left class that day being inspired by my pious example.
The next day was our staff retreat. Every year we go to Cedar Springs, just over the border, and listen to speakers, eat chips, sing songs, and share beds with our colleagues. Cedar Springs boasts man-made ponds, tame swans, and ornamental cabbage (I find ornamental cabbage -or kale- to be a very strange thing to decorate flower beds with, especially when I've been served coleslaw every year -- which I highly doubt is coincidental). The food is usually pretty decent - think good, wholesome grandma food.
During dinner we began talking around our table about Lent. Some of us had decided to give something up for the forty days. However, it came up that you can technically have a break on Sunday from whatever you were fasting. Some people at the table stated that if they had decided to fast from something, then they wouldn't partake, even on Sundays. The whole go big or go home concept.
In my classic Cheryl manner, I said in a sort of veiled way, "Well, there would be some things you would DEFINITELY partake in if you were allowed to on Sundays." Naturally, I was given a few blank stares, which I was not expecting. I awkwardly continued, "Well, I mean, if you were giving up sex, you would surely need to, you know, on Sundays. People have natural urges, you know."
Oh, my, I did not just say that, did I? A table full of elementary school teachers (whom I don't know), young T.A.'s, unmarried females, and an art teacher (who I think was secretly smiling) looked at me with potatoes and roast beef kind of hovering in their mouths. It occurred to me that these elder elementary school teachers (the kind that are like human teddy bears) might not really talk about things like sex at a dinner table full of strangers. Hah! High school teachers do!!
So it was pretty much downhill from there. I kept accidentally consuming chocolate. I mean, hot chocolate doesn't really count, does it? And then Heavenly Hash ice cream was on sale, and I bought it (sort of forgetting it's laced with chocolatey goodness), and then I wasn't about to let my husband eat it in front of me (so I solved that by having it with him).
All this time, though, I was still telling people I was fasting from chocolate. In my heart of hearts (yes, that's a real place), I still believed I was going to be able to make it forty days. I received a reality check, however, when Andy commented that he thought my chocolate intake had actually DOUBLED during my fast. Hm.
I have now decided that I am giving up giving up chocolate for Lent. Two things. Even better.
The next day was our staff retreat. Every year we go to Cedar Springs, just over the border, and listen to speakers, eat chips, sing songs, and share beds with our colleagues. Cedar Springs boasts man-made ponds, tame swans, and ornamental cabbage (I find ornamental cabbage -or kale- to be a very strange thing to decorate flower beds with, especially when I've been served coleslaw every year -- which I highly doubt is coincidental). The food is usually pretty decent - think good, wholesome grandma food.
During dinner we began talking around our table about Lent. Some of us had decided to give something up for the forty days. However, it came up that you can technically have a break on Sunday from whatever you were fasting. Some people at the table stated that if they had decided to fast from something, then they wouldn't partake, even on Sundays. The whole go big or go home concept.
In my classic Cheryl manner, I said in a sort of veiled way, "Well, there would be some things you would DEFINITELY partake in if you were allowed to on Sundays." Naturally, I was given a few blank stares, which I was not expecting. I awkwardly continued, "Well, I mean, if you were giving up sex, you would surely need to, you know, on Sundays. People have natural urges, you know."
Oh, my, I did not just say that, did I? A table full of elementary school teachers (whom I don't know), young T.A.'s, unmarried females, and an art teacher (who I think was secretly smiling) looked at me with potatoes and roast beef kind of hovering in their mouths. It occurred to me that these elder elementary school teachers (the kind that are like human teddy bears) might not really talk about things like sex at a dinner table full of strangers. Hah! High school teachers do!!
Sidebar: In my defense, on Sunday our pastor had said that back in the day the Catholics would fast from sex, even, during Lent. a) I assumed everyone would know that. b) Thank you Jesus that I'm not Catholic!All right, so that was dinner. Around came dessert time, and out of the magical kitchen (wo)manned by ladies with bun hair, appeared these squares with cream cheese filling, and chocolate pudding on top. It looked pretty good. Except, with my big fat mouth, everyone knew I couldn't eat chocolate. However, I never specified which KIND of chocolate, and clearly pudding is in a totally different category than, say, chocolate bars. I had a whole table witness my first step into denial and also my first strike as a faster. The dessert wasn't really that good, though. I think my guilt tainted its choclatude.
So it was pretty much downhill from there. I kept accidentally consuming chocolate. I mean, hot chocolate doesn't really count, does it? And then Heavenly Hash ice cream was on sale, and I bought it (sort of forgetting it's laced with chocolatey goodness), and then I wasn't about to let my husband eat it in front of me (so I solved that by having it with him).
All this time, though, I was still telling people I was fasting from chocolate. In my heart of hearts (yes, that's a real place), I still believed I was going to be able to make it forty days. I received a reality check, however, when Andy commented that he thought my chocolate intake had actually DOUBLED during my fast. Hm.
I have now decided that I am giving up giving up chocolate for Lent. Two things. Even better.
Tuesday, February 5, 2008
Saturday, February 2, 2008
Barf-tacular Glory
Sorely disappointed.
This week, Andy got sick. Like, puking outside on the street adding chunks to slush piles while at work kind of sick. YES!! I can now finally don my cute little nurse outfit and he can't run away from me (like he did last year when he lived in Victoria - wouldn't let me visit - I think because he didn't want me to see him looking all cute and ugly). So, being the great little wife I am, I made him chicken soup, patted his head, listened to him whine, fed him ginger ale, and waited for my chance, for my duty, for my pending saint-like status.
Except, the bastard DIDN'T PUKE. Nope. Not a drop. I had buckets mysteriously planted all over the house, and kept one ear open all night. Part of the night I was awake, planning a brilliant post about how being a wife has taken on a whole new meaning. You know, like the bar is now raised to the cleaning up puke level. I had the whole thing figured out, kinda like a scene in a movie, with me emptying the buckets in slow motion, maybe in soft focus, with Enya playing in the background. I would have written a freaking halo into the piece. I saw people placing their hands over their hearts, shaking their heads, saying, "That Andy has the most selfless, sacrificial wife I've EVER seen."
But now all I can say is I made him some soup. Whoop-edy-fricken'-doo! Where's the PUKE? The CHUNKS? The STENCH? The GAGGING? I wanted buckets and buckets of the stuff. It would have been disgusting and brilliant.
Oh well, one can only hope for next time.
This week, Andy got sick. Like, puking outside on the street adding chunks to slush piles while at work kind of sick. YES!! I can now finally don my cute little nurse outfit and he can't run away from me (like he did last year when he lived in Victoria - wouldn't let me visit - I think because he didn't want me to see him looking all cute and ugly). So, being the great little wife I am, I made him chicken soup, patted his head, listened to him whine, fed him ginger ale, and waited for my chance, for my duty, for my pending saint-like status.
Except, the bastard DIDN'T PUKE. Nope. Not a drop. I had buckets mysteriously planted all over the house, and kept one ear open all night. Part of the night I was awake, planning a brilliant post about how being a wife has taken on a whole new meaning. You know, like the bar is now raised to the cleaning up puke level. I had the whole thing figured out, kinda like a scene in a movie, with me emptying the buckets in slow motion, maybe in soft focus, with Enya playing in the background. I would have written a freaking halo into the piece. I saw people placing their hands over their hearts, shaking their heads, saying, "That Andy has the most selfless, sacrificial wife I've EVER seen."
But now all I can say is I made him some soup. Whoop-edy-fricken'-doo! Where's the PUKE? The CHUNKS? The STENCH? The GAGGING? I wanted buckets and buckets of the stuff. It would have been disgusting and brilliant.
Oh well, one can only hope for next time.
Monday, January 14, 2008
Tuesday, January 8, 2008
The Grand Return
Can I get away with saying that I forgot I had a blog? And that I just happened to stumble upon it, like, just this second? Would anyone believe me? Could my previous track record of brain farts carry my excuse that far?
Yes. The answer is yes.
The truth is, I have made one of those resolutions that I usually never make. I hate starting off the year doomed to failure. Over the holidays, Andy and I sat in a little restaurant called The Blue Fox and proclaimed our resolutions to each other over breakfast and hot bevvies with the optimism that only New Year's Day can bring. Our ideas carried us beyond this year and into the next years, until I found myself wrapped up in a soft grey blanket (with my socked feet sticking out) on a veranda overlooking the water somewhere. I like those conversations. And I like dreaming with someone who will be with me through all my resolutions.
As for this year's resolution, you've probably guessed it by now: resurrect this lonely little text box and feed it words from time to time. I do have stories to tell, moments that demand recording. I do have some words in my possession (but apparently some aren't even REAL, as I recently learned playing Scrabble --who knew that "rex" and "lez" aren't legit words?).
And so, it is with great pleasure, and a little trepidation, that I open this blog for 2008. Scissors, please.
Yes. The answer is yes.
The truth is, I have made one of those resolutions that I usually never make. I hate starting off the year doomed to failure. Over the holidays, Andy and I sat in a little restaurant called The Blue Fox and proclaimed our resolutions to each other over breakfast and hot bevvies with the optimism that only New Year's Day can bring. Our ideas carried us beyond this year and into the next years, until I found myself wrapped up in a soft grey blanket (with my socked feet sticking out) on a veranda overlooking the water somewhere. I like those conversations. And I like dreaming with someone who will be with me through all my resolutions.
As for this year's resolution, you've probably guessed it by now: resurrect this lonely little text box and feed it words from time to time. I do have stories to tell, moments that demand recording. I do have some words in my possession (but apparently some aren't even REAL, as I recently learned playing Scrabble --who knew that "rex" and "lez" aren't legit words?).
And so, it is with great pleasure, and a little trepidation, that I open this blog for 2008. Scissors, please.
Friday, September 28, 2007
Jolly
We have a freezer full of gourmet cupcakes leftover from the wedding. They are pink with pink chocolate shavings on top and seriously send a warm glow of happiness all the way down to my toes with each and every bite. We just got them back last night from a friend who stored them for us over our honeymoon. However, the pile was not as large as I remember...My friend admitted that they may have tapped into just a few dozen (I mean, we did leave those innocent little cupcakes in their freezer for six weeks -- TORTURE). Apparently it was all Charis's idea whenever she came over. I'm soooo not surprised and I'm a little bit proud of my friends for doing EXACTLY what I would have done.
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